A Waist
by LadyBraken
Summary: When Voldemort killed Harry Potter, he thought it was the end. But he should have known better: nothing can tame a Potter. Not even death. The ghost of The-Boy-Who-Died is here to remind him one simple thing. No one, ever, escapes Death... (DH compliant except after killing curse. Sort of HP/LV. Ghost Harry. lot of angst. If some good soul want to beta it...)
1. Chapter 1

Hy! this is a little fanfic I'm writing aside the others. It will probably be quite short. This first chapter is a test, to see if you are interested by the idea! Sort of a prelude, kind of.

I'm sorry I don't have a beta for this, so if there is some atrocious mistakes, please point them out and I will correct them! Don't be too harsh tho, English isn't my native language and I'm doing my best.

This is some angst, tragic and sort-of HP/ LV slash.

Oh, and I really, really like comments. I need to know what you like and dislike, what I am doing good or wrong, you see? :)

Warning: death, violence, torture, suicidal thought, angst

Disclaimer: oh Merlin I don't even own that bloody computer how could I own Harry Potter?

* * *

 ** _A WAIST_**

 ** _Chapter I: the ghost_**

"HARRY POTTER IS DEAD!"

Lord Voldemort let out a cheerful laugh as the faces in the crowd of his enemies decomposed and a murmur arose slowly. It was so simple. They were going to surrender now. He had won the war. He was immortal. Invincible. Nobody would ever challenge him.

He had conquered faith. He didn't care that he was actually walking in a pool of blood, he didn't care that ha was going to rule over the ashes. He had won and nothing could taint his victory.

All the Death Eaters applauded and shouted for joy to their master, shaking their opponents. Children. They were only children, frightened, tired, desperate. But Voldemort's men could not care less. Their greatest task had been accomplished, and their master had to prove his power. He had reduced all his enemies to nothing.

Their cries echoed through the ruins of what had been one of the finest schools of magic in the world. The smoldering ruins answered their joy darkly. Some stones tumbled down from one of the towers that seemed about to collapse, and you could see the Slytherin banner torn across the ground.

Who would dare defy him now? Who would dare stand in front of him? He was alone, all mighty and all powerful, he was-

"That I am."

All the people still alive were startled, whatever their side. Voldemort turned around, looking down at Harry Potter's corpse. He was immobile, unbreathing, cold in the tight embrace of the giant. Death, undoubtedly, definitely dead. Slowly, he let his eyes drag to the source of the voice, a little farther, between the terrified students and his men.

The world seemed to stop. It wasn't possible, it just wasn't. All were silent, and nothing moved, except the dawn breeze that blew gently, without affecting the boy nonchalantly resting against one of the broken pillars of what had been Hall of Hogwarts a few hours earlier.

Harry James Potter looked at him, recessed amusement in his brilliant emerald eyes. The first rays of the sun shone on his skin tanned by days of flight, months outdoors and years of Quidditch, passing lightly through him, giving him the appearance of a translucent cloud. He was no longer dirty, nor covered with mud or blood. His black untamed hair waved slightly under the warmth of the day ahead. The wrinkles of pain, the black markings under his eyes, the fear and harshness that marked his face had disappeared.

He looked peaceful. He was beautiful. He was dead.

He cracked a smile.

"Hi Tom! Did you miss me?"

It took a few moments for everyone to regain their spirits. At last, the most lively among the crowd, the others were still blocked, stupefied and open-mouthed.

"But ... but you're dead!"

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Malfoy, he's dead, he would not be a ghost without that."

Voldemort's voice could have frozen a volcano. Lucius blushed with shame and bowed his head as if apologizing for his own stupidity, whispering a 'sorry my Lord'.

"Yup, I was in the purgatory and I met Albus and he suggested I come bother you a bit." Said the boy as if everything was normal. "So, tell me, Tom, what's going on now?"

A few seconds passed before someone burst out laughing. Harry turned to the person in question.

Hermione had tears in her eyes and her hands clasped over her mouth.

"Oh Harry ..." She said.

No one could tell if she was happy or sad. Their eyes met, and she understood. There was no reason to be sad. He smiled at her.

"My god, 'Mione, did a horse walk you on? You look terrible!'

His voice was sweeter that it had been. It was alluring, pure, a dance of silk on his tongue. Unnatural. Perfect.

"It's not a way to talk to a lady!" She exclaimed grandly, strangely imitating the tone of Narcissa.

He burst out laughing. A crystalline laugh, true, dead. No one had heard him laughing with so much heart during his lifetime. Nothing could trouble him now.

A shudder passed in more than one spine.

It was utterly terrifying.

He looked at each face, of his friends, professors. More than one was crying. They couldn't understand that it was meant to be. But it was so ironic… He looked… he looked more alive than what he was during the short seventeen years he had passed as a living.

Ginny was sobbing. He gave her an apologetic smile. It wasn't for her that he had come back. She tried to reach for him, but her brother stopped her. She whimpered, sobbed like never before, her cries tearing the air.

Harry smiled to her softly.

He turned to face Hagrid, who was still carrying his corpse.

"Oh, Hagrid, do not be sad, I was condemned long before I was born, you know. I've been accepting this for a long time… But do me a favor, will you? Bury me next to my parents, at Godric's hollow. I never truly had another home than Hogwarts, but I guess it would be unfair of me to ask to be buried here. "

He cast a last glance at his corpse, and his eyes seemed to lose their joy for a moment, his mouth twitched in an expression of emptiness.

It was terrifying.

Then his smile returned to his half-transparent face and he advanced towards Voldemort.

"You did not think you'd get rid of me so easily, did you? Death is not an option, Tom."

It wasn't even a threat, merely a statement. His voice was soft and inviting. Terribly so.

A person who knew Voldemort as well as Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore or maybe even Severus Snape would have guessed the fear that passed for a second on the face of the most powerful society in the world.

But none of these people was still alive.

Harry stared at him, his innocent smile not weakening for a moment.

And it hit Voldemort. He knew. Oh Merlin, the child _knew_.

* * *

Days. It had been days since The ghost of Harry Potter was following him everywhere. He had hoped that the boy was stuck at Hogwarts, well, at what was left of Hogwarts, but no.

No he had to follow him.

For Salazar's sake!

A familiar chuckle sounded behind him.

"My my if Albus knew that I made you swore on your ancestors!"

And he was there, lying on the sofa as if he were at home with a grace and relaxation that he had never had in his lifetime.

Voldemort before he shut all the students who had not surrendered, as well as some professors. He was waiting to decide what to do with all these people, but his mind had been busy with others.

Potter had to be exorcised. It was only a few days since he followed him and Harry was already pushing him into a state of fury. And it was not good; A true general must be able to keep his head cold, and if Voldemort had just won England, he still had the rest of the world against him.

And the boy had his feet on the couch.

And he didn't want to bloody die. Well, he was dead, but even in death he had managed to be insufferable.

The Dark Lord hadn't slept, hadn't eat, hadn't even took a shower since. It was like his very body felt always threatened.

Obviously the fact that his enemy, the boy that had murdered six parts of his soul was in the same room every hour of every day didn't helped.

"I'm afraid you will not be able to tell anything to your dear headmaster, boy." He spat.

"You never know, Tom, you never know." Answered the boy with a frustrating sweetness.

Someone knocked on the door. Voldemort allowed a few seconds to pass for plenitude before allowing his servants to enter.

A cruel smile spread over his face.

Harry Potter, even dead, was Harry Potter. And if the boy had decided to make him suffer, well he had many, many ways to get angry. Each of them being his boyfriends whom he had left in the world of the living.

Neville Longbottom. The boy who could have been in Harry's place.

Voldemort knew Harry better than anyone, ironically. He knew that this boy had more value in his heart than all his other friends assembled. He was innocent. He was bound to him by the same prophecy. He was the Gryffindor Harry could never have been because of the horcrux.

Oh yes, Voldemort knew for the Horcrux. Unfortunately, he had understood it only too late, when he felt the anchor tear his soul at the boy's death. The pain had been instantaneous, unbearable. Only a horcrux could provoke this. Only a Horcrux could make him feel lost, broken, empty. Uncompleted. And now he was doomed to feel that forever.

All because of Harry James Potter.

Oh, he would love to make the boy suffer. He could not die. He was going to feel the pain, the sadness for eternity.

Delicious. Exquisite retaliation.

The boy entered the room in the expert hands of the Lestrange brothers. He was still covered with mud, the sweat and blood of the battle and the beatings that had been inflicted upon him since he arrived in Lord Voldemort's personal dungeons. Tears ran over his face and under the debris of his clothes. His jaw was clenched in a determined expression and his eyes still defied the Dark Lord.

A true Gryffondor. Well, all these were going to die, that's for sure.

Harry stood up quietly, his face taking on a serious air. Cold, dead. A thrill ran across Voldemort's back, but he was the Dark Lord. It took more to discourage him. He was going to get angry with this impudent child, at last!

The boy moved gracefully across the room, almost floating above the floor. It was strange that even in death he was wearing his oversized clothes. It was even more strange that they looked like they were fitting him. He looked… regal. All of his movement seemed to have a purpose for the years to come.

Voldemort could _feel_ the infinite void behind his body, following him.

"I'm sure you're thrilled to see your friend, Mr. Longbottom, Harry ... Do not be bothered, I'm sure the Lestranges treated him very well, after all they have experience with this family, isn't it? "

He chuckled darkly.

Neville struggled, but the two brothers' hold was firm on his shoulders. The two brothers seemed to appreciate the situation very much, in view of the wretched smile that twisted their faces.

The Lestranges brothers were perfectionists. And this work there had been left unfinished for nearly sixteen years.

It was inadmissible.

But now their master had returned, and he had won. Nothing could stand in the way, nothing would stop the cause. Nothing could stop Lord Voldemort.

They deliberately ignored the heavy look of the ghost which had been posted a few paces from their master.

Neville was tired. Dark bruises circled his eyes. He looked old. Not older, just old. He was a man, a warrior, and more than that. Just like every survivor of the battle. And now, he was a prisoner.

He looked desperately at Harry.

"Now now what are we going to do to you…" whispered Voldemort, his red eyes glimmering maliciously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hy! the second chapter of this little thing! Once again, I don't have a eta, so I'm sorry of there is any mistakes that makes your eyes bleed in despair. Well, at least, you'll be in the mood. (I'm so sorry, whu do I write this I don't even know).**

 **I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Don't forget to review, I love reviews. I want to know if you like what I'm doing!**

 **Oh, and thank you for all the favs, follow and the comments!**

 **~LadyBraken**

Warning: blood, torture, fucked up situation, death obviously, well, the usual.

Disclaimer: I don't even understand why I have to say that I'm not JKR and will not sell this thing. I wish I could, but hey, you know, life and stuff.

* * *

 _ **A WAIST**_

 _ **Chapter II: the friend**_

 _Neville was tired. Dark bruises circled his eyes. He looked old. Not older, just old. He was a man, a warrior, and more than that. Just like every survivor of the battle. And now, he was a prisoner._

 _He looked desperately at Harry._

" _Now now what are we going to do to you…" whispered Voldemort, his red eyes glimmering maliciously._

The most powerful wizard that the earth was at that moment advanced towards Neville Longbottom, a predatory smile on his lips. He loved what he was doing. He loved fear in the eyes of his victims. Their mouths twisted with despair.

He was so absorbed in his misdeed that he did not see Neville's gaze pass from his face, which he had been contemplating with disgust, to Harry.

"Crucio!"

Neville's face tightened and he held ten seconds before starting to groan. He held five more before yelling. Twenty seconds later, he twisted on the ground, eyes half-close, mumbling incoherent words. Voldemort wondered if he was more or less resistant to the curse than his parents. Bellatrix had told him that they made the sweetest screams, but you could never trust the fisherman on the fish's size. He had made them killed just after the battle anyway. Martyrs weren't good for his image.

Voldemort broke the spell and turned to Harry. The face of the ghost ... He was calm, with some sort of soft resignation in his eyes. He looked at Neville as a mother looking at a child she had just put to bed.

The young warrior had straightened up. His face had returned to the air of defiance it had before, if one forgot the sweat and the gasps. A stream of blood flowed from his nose.

Voldemort was furious. There was no horror, only pointless screams. These screams were the proof of a physical response, not of mental exhaustion. Each of them were telling him that he had lost.

It was like the boy was already broken. And not by him, no he had choose to broke himself.

He had accepted.

How could one accept death? The endless, unknown void of nothingness, the complete destruction of one's being, the annihilation of everything he was and could become?

He felt powerless like never before. With a gesture he ordered to the brothers Lestrange to get out. Longbottom was a fool, all of them were.

But they didn't mattered.

"How is it?"

Neville Longbottom's trembling voice brought him out of his thoughts.

Harry knelt, his expression soft and calm. He held out his transparent hand to touch the boy's cheek, as if to wipe away his tears.

"It's like going to sleep." He murmured with a smile. "Maybe you'll see your parents! and Fred, you know, I'm sure he is still making pranks up there, with little Collin. You'll be fine."

The gesture of the dead boy was so tender, so sweet that Voldemort was nauseated. Idiots sentimental, even in death he had not understood his lesson. There is nothing worse than to die.

"Look at me, Neville. I do not want _that_ to be the last thing you see in this life." Murmured the boy.

Hell, his voice sounded like a draft. Since when could he be so sweet? The Dark Lord had only heard him scream and shout and cry before. Was that the Harry Potter that Dumbledore knew? No, it must be something that death did to him. Nobody can be that forgiving, that genuine. Everybody always had a second motive, even if it was a stupid one.

Anyway, the question was irrelevant.

"Thank you…"

The hate deformed his serpentine face. They could not change anything now. They could not do anything. He was immortal. He had the power.

He knew it.

And he was going to make them pay.

His fury spread his magic around him in a cold, glacial force that was crushing every being. Longbottom winced, but he never looked away from Harry. He was clenching his fists until his knuckle turned white. He didn't begged, he didn't shivered.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green beam touched the boy, and for a moment his corpse fell on the ground in a grotesque position.

So much for the héroïsme.

Voldemort straightened his spine and stared at the ghost proudly, as if to say 'I won'.

Two green pits, of the same green color as the spell he had just thrown, fixed on him, twinkling. He had not noticed until then how the color of his eyes had changed, passing from a gentle emerald to that dirty green, mortal, absolute. And he looked at him with that amusement, that pity, that absolute knowledge, a little smile on the corner of his lips. Merlin, he looked at him like Dumbledore. Like he knew him from the bottom of his soul.

"I won, Potter." He said with venom to hide his trouble. "All your little friends are going to die one by one, those who are in my dungeon first, of course, and then I would go and flush out those who managed to escape. I will annihilate all those you loved, Potter. Ad those they loved, and everyone that will try foolishly to stand against me. "

The boy continued to look at him with that sweet-bitter joy. Voldemort was an expert in what was hiding his emotion, but the boy _knew_. He could see it in those eyes piercing through him.

He took a few second to answer, and finally, ha said softly:

"I pity you, Tom. I truly do."

On these words, he walked to the sofa and leaned back on it, as if nothing had happened.

"I wonder, what did you do with my body?"

"Potter, it's three in the morning."

"You don't sleep, and neither do I; your remark is irrelevant."

Voldemort would have sigh if he didn't had a better control on himself. Three weeks.

Voldemort had try to exorcise Harry himself. He had used the darkest arts he knew, raw magic, hours and hours of incantations in ancient and forbidden languages, until he had fallen of exhaustion. When he woke up, it was only to find Harry bloody Potter looking at him with some sort of worried amusement.

It was infuriating. It was frustrating and Merlin it was embarrassing.

He had expected the boy to mock him on his failure, with that horrid chick of his, but he did none of that.

The ghost had followed him to his room without leaving his eyes. Voldemort had collapsed on his bed this time, suffering from magical exhaustion. When he awoke, he was covered with a blanket. Someone had opened the window to make room for the room, probably to chase away the fever, and a hot soup was smoking on the table.

And Potter was just sitting on the edge of the window, singing something. Voldemort could not hear the words, and he did not know the melody. And yet it made something sound in him.

Something like home.

Voldemort shook his head to drive away this ridiculous idea. He had never had a home other than Hogwarts, and he certainly had not sung. He was not reached by these silly and human feelings. He was above that.

From the corner of his window, Harry had smirk.

The next days, Voldemort had summoned his best necromancers, and then some coming from other countries. All of them had tried, only a few were still alive to tell the tale. And everytime he had try to mock the boy on the fact that he had actually killed people, he had been given an answer that made a shiver run down his spine - not that he would acknowledge it:

"Everybody die, Tom. Some die at dinner, some die on a throne. Many die on a battlefield, but even more die in an hospital. Some painfully, some in their bed, at peace. Some die for something, some for nothing, but it is always the same, Tom. Death is a very possessive master. I didn't killed them. It was just their time to leave."

' _And one day, it will be yours'_ could be heard in the silence.

After that, Voldemort had choose to simply ignore the boy. He had other things, many things to do. Rule the world and such.

He had reunited his death eaters in a meeting to distribute prizes after the battle, and honors for the dead ones.

To his greatest displeasure, he had to actually congratulate the Malfoy family. He was no foul. He knew perfectly that they were trying to double-cross him. He could see the fear in the man's eyes, the devotion for her son in the woman's and the pure hatred in the son's. But they were rich, and he needed money. War is an expensive business. He had to find a way to gain the kid's complet loyalty, and he would get rid of the couple. Maybe in a few month, he thought as he let the two Malfoy kiss his robes.

He ignored Harry's eyes piercing his back.

He hated the presence of the dead. It was disgusting. It made him sick to his stomach to feel it so _close_.

"You know, it is amusing that you are afraid of death, you who give it so easily…"

Voldemort jumped. He actually jumped, even slightly. He hadn't see the ghost got closer behind his back to actually whisper in his ear. He hated it. He hated the feel of the cold air where his breath should have been warm. He hated that he had managed to get so close, so easily.

He hadn't even answered and had continued to handle his court.

Harry had gave him the silent treatment until that strange question.

"I wonder, what did you do with my body?"

That was an odd… but a good question. He had been so focused on what to do with the spirit of the boy that he hadn't even give an order for the body.

"Why would you care?"

"I don't know. I think I've seen myself survive for so many years that I was curious to see how death suited me. I cannot see myself in the mirrors, I don't know if you noticed?"

Damn brat. he knew perfectly well that he had.

"I did."

Now that he thought about it, that could hurt the ghost. Seeing on his own decomposing body was surely something traumatic. Perhaps the ghost would choose to return (at least) where he came from, or at least he would stay in a corner of the room to ruminate. Everything but following him everywhere.

"Wormtail!"

The rodent rushed to the feet of his master so quickly that one might have thought that he had transplanned.

"Y-yes my Lord!"

It was disgusting. That man, what a vermin! To drag himself like that at his feet. An insect. Only his silver hand reminded the Dark Lord why he left this foul character alive. A traitor. He hated the traitors. And if he did not get it, he could at least make the effort to be proper!

Oh yes, Voldemort loved seeing his subjects crawling at his feet. But he had ways of doing things. Without drooling on his shoes, for example.

Merlin, the rat almost died strangled by his own hand! He was lucky the young Malfoy was a kind heart- something that should be changed quite soon.

"What happened to Potter's corpse?" he asked coldly.

Pettigrew glanced at the ghost staring at him behind his master's shoulder. Voldemort knew exactly what he was thinking. He had been released from his life debt when the boy was dead. He did not know if it still applied to his ghost. He was afraid, and perhaps even ashamed.

The most noble and useless feeling that could cross this pathetic excuse of man.

"We-we didn't had any orders my Lord so… we just let it in Hogwarts…"

"... In Hogwarts."

"Y-yes My Lord, I think they put him - I mean it- in the donjons."

"Dismissed."

He sigh. He had to confessed that he was curious. The boy wasn't any boy. Maybe his body had changed differently that an usual one?

"Fancy a trip to school, boy?"

"Since when do you ask my opinion?" answered the ghost, titling his head to the side.

The question once against struck Voldemort.

 _Since when?_


	3. Chapter 3

Hy! Thanks for all the reviews! it's very nice to know that my ideas and fics are appreciated. once again no bet on this, but I hope you'll like it all the same! I'm preparing something a bit special for the next chapter, so keep up!

Warning: Voldy's a bastard, so well, beware and stuff.

Disclaimer: I don't really know the point of saying that I don't own Hp. You can guess, can't you?

 **Chapter 3:**

The situation was strange.

Voldemort had apparted to Hogwarts, now rid of his protections, and the ghost who followed the Dark Lord day and night, usually so talkative, had fallen silent. Perhaps because he was returning to the scene of his own murder. Perhaps it was the vision of his one and only home destroyed and burnt to ashes, abandoned into the hands of his worst it was the bodies hung in front of the doors, pushed by the wind, from which pieces of clothes and flesh fell lazily.

Perhaps the age of the hanged had something to do with his sudden sinister expression.

Not that Voldemort cared.

"How vulgar…" whispered the ghost.

The Dark Lord superbly ignored it. There was no point to be angry with a dead. It absolutely _didn't_ made him shiver.

As gracefully as ever, he pushed the dark wooden door of the castle, and made his way among the ruins. No pupil was allowed to return to the scene of the battle until the castle was secured. Too much wizard blood had already been shed to lose the Death Eater children in silly without the noises, the children who run everywhere, the rush before the classes, was sinister. Even the places that had been spared by the battle were still covered with blood. The last corpses had been withdrawn a few days earlier. The count had to be done by hand, the remains of white and black magic in the building making any spell more dangerous beyond a certain extent. All the corpses had to be harvested, identified and processed.

Harry brushed against the walls with his fingertips, as if he were still able to feel their touch.

Voldemort didn't quite get the fuss around it, but his servants seemed to be quite hurt by that mission. It was pathetic, the way his fierce warrior were all weakened, red eyes and shaking hands, over one or two corpses.

However, the number of pureblood among theses corpses was quite… regrettable.

The Dark Lord descended into the bowels of the castle. There, at the place that had once been the potions class. Bodies were piled up, lined up on the ground and on the remaining tables, some covered in a blanket in a desperate effort of modesty. Others had their hands clenched on one or two dried flowers that someone had deposited in secret. These futile acts of resistance annoyed Voldemort more than they should. The smile that was born on the lips of the ghost at their sight was even worse.

Harry Potter was lying in the middle of his comrades' bodies. It was slightly elevated, on what had once been Snape's office, and covered with a sheet that had been white, and which today was greyish, stained with traces of the hands of people who came to say goodbye to him illegally . Messages were scribbled on the fabric, prayers, farewells. Voldemort approached the corpse in silence, and lifted the piece of cloth that covered its body had not been defiled, according to his orders, but the weeks had done their work. The boy's face was frozen, his features falling. His golden skin had turned yellowish, and his eyes so bright during his life were no more than two decaying holes. His hair, on the other hand, remained as messy as it was during his life.

Voldemort had expected anger, sadness, or coldness from the little ghost. So why the hell was he laughing?

"What's so funny, Potter?" he asked coldly.

"I'm sorry." The ghost answered, wiping inexistante tears of laughter, "I do look like shite."

"Quite."

If Voldemort's remark was supposed to be condescending, it only made Harry laugh more. Annoyed, the Dark Lord turned back. How could this child laugh at his own death? Laugh at him, Lord Voldemort? But he would find a way to break him. He was good at that, it was almost part of his job's description.

Returning to what used to be the gardens of the school, the ghost stopped over a place where the earth had completely turned and blackened. He put his foot on it, slightly touching the ground.

"Nothing will ever grow here again." He announced coldly. "Admire your work, Lord Voldemort."

"I did not cast the spell that provoked that explosion, Potter."

"You designed the war. You enslaved its fighters. You ruined your own home. This is your work, and this is the only mark you will ever let on this planet's face."

Voldemort smirked. "I'm immortal, boy. I'm pretty sure I can do much more scars than a few burn holes."

"Nobody's immortal."

"You certainly were not."

That remark, once again didn't had the intended effect on the young boy's ghost. Harry only smile, albeit a bit sadly, and stared at Voldemort with his impossibly green eyes. "Indeed, I weren't." He whispered softly. "But I was used to the idea of dying since my twelfth birthday, so it wasn't quite a surprise…"

"You gave me quite a hard word for someone ready to die."

Voldemort didn't knew what compelled him to talk that freely to the boy, but it wasn't like he was a threat anymore. Maybe, he was the only one that his paranoïd mind didn't acknowledged as a threat.

"Well, I like to think that it was actually Dumbledore and yourself, maybe with Snape's participation, that made things that difficult. And I'm kind of stubborn too."

"Snape? He was on my side all along, boy."

The ghost sigh, even if he actually didn't needed air. "There is so much you still don't understand…"

Voldemort merely scowled at him. Impudent boy.

Voldemort had a meeting to ensure. It was necessary to discuss the diplomacy to be applied to the Germany, a country profoundly refractory to return to the hands of a Dark Lord. But also a country in which most wizards came out of Dumstrang, and therefore knew how to fight if necessary.

"You could kill them all, my Lord!" Bellatrix all but purred, slightly dancing on her chair somehow.

Voldemort only glared at the woman for her all too tempting idea.

"The ambassador will be invited next week. I count on you, Lucius, to give him a ball worthy of his rank, and of what's at stake."

"It will be an honor for my family, My Lord." Answered the Malfoy patriarch, bowing his head to his master.

"Good. Avery, report."

"My Lord, it seems that the resistance… is having a second blow."

The man paused a second, unsure of it was safe to continue, ut he clearly had no way out.

"They seems to… consider that the presence of the boy's ghost is a manifestation of fate. Than he is the conscience that's missing to you, My Lord. They think their fight is justified and bound to success."

A heavy silence fell on the room, and every pair of eyes was staring at the dead, who was now head down and feets in the air lika some mischievous child that would know how to fly.

"There's no such thing as faith." simply said the ghost, not at all helping the uneasiness of the Death Eaters, but effectively stopping Voldemort from crucioing Avery.

"Indeed. Tere is only power, and those too weak to seek it. And we have power, my friends. We are the rulers, no matter what a bunch of dreamy teenagers might say." Declared the Dark Lord, provoking an explosion of applause and murmured approval among his faithful's.

He didn't graced a look at the ghost that was positively evilly smiling at him. He should have been able to turn the situation, to say that he had brought Potter back in order to humiliate him and to make him watch the death of his friends, but his appearance in the middle of the battlefield had prevented that.

Somehow, he suspected that Dumbledore was behind that.

He couldn't allow that type of hope to spread among the resistance: too many had escaped in the confusion. They were desperate, they had nothing to lose anymore, and so even more dangerous. No, he needed to stabilise his power in order to spread his empire, and to have a firm grip, first on all of the United Kingdom, even Ireland, and then on Europe.

However, France was a problem, an enormous one. Beauxbaton was a firmly light school, and all of that damn country was full of hiding places, courtesy of the second World War. And that was without talking about the worst thing in France: French people. They had the annoying habit to do everything but what was expected or ordonned to them. If there was something they were good at, it was civil disobedience, and Merlin it was effective. The last time the Dark Lord had managed to talk with the french ambassador, he had gotten out with a headache and a strange disgust for administration and paperwork.

No surprise that Lucius was so annoyingly good in politic.

"Of course my Lord, and that's all thanks to you!" crooned Bellatrix,crawling out of her seat to kiss the the bottom of his robes, her messy hair falling everywhere around her distorted face.

"I think she might have a crush on you, Tom.' whispered the boy merrily.

"You _think_?" was the Dark Lord's only and almost inaudible answer, provoking a chuckle from the ghost.

Lucius Malfoy was certainly an unbearable and pompous man, even in view of the Death Eater criteria, but one thing was certain: he knew how to give a ball. The ministry had been rearranged to the glory of Voldemort, however, in symbolisms less aggressive than those that had been put in place during his rise to power. Large flags bearing the mark, gilded on a background of glorious green, had been placed everywhere on the walls of the reception room, actually lining the room.

Even if the symbol of the skull vomiting a snake might have seemed frightening, the replacement of the silver by the walleye gave it a regal air, and the green was clear enough not to be stifling. Large magic windows separated each banner, enchanted to let in the colors of a setting sun, which was reflected on the varnished floor and covered with mosaic to the glory of the Dark Lord, inflaming the room gloriously. The colones wore stylized snakes, some of which held in their mouths a cornucopia which served the guests fruit and exquisite dishes.

Voldemort watched them through the stained glass. It was easy to deceive wizards with muggle techniques, most of them believed themselves so much above that they did not even consider the presence of a camera, or a little antrax in their mail. And then, it was not as if there were Muggleborns in the audience, in the ministry or nowhere in England soon if everything went according to his plans.

The Dark Lord stood behind the window, his hands behind his back in a posture he had reflexed from his student year, and who at the age of 15 gave him the air of a perfect pupil. Whoever the present Voldemort looked more like a buyer watching his future slaves, or of a vulture perched on a tree, waiting for the next death of a man who had the misfortune to lie beneath.

The only thing that could trouble the master of the place was the ghost of his worst enemy, standing with his hands in his pockets beside him. Whatever Harry had been quiet enough since they'd arrived. Voldemort thanked him internally, though he would never say anything out loud.

As usual, he had calculated everything. Narcissa had prepared the decoration and selected the menu, with taste and tact whether in the names or in the composition of the dishes, lucius had taken care to gather the most important people and especially those who had the best appearance. The ranks were visible to the naked eye by the stenues of clothing, subtle ways of helping their guests not to get lost in the hierarchical molasses of the new regime.

Thus, employees of the department who had no other rank than their jobs were dressed in similar, sober, ample outfits that recalled the outfits of the Hogwarts professors. The Death Eaters wore something that looked more like a military uniform, with a long black coat and matching pants tightened around their waists so as to give them an elegant and athletic bearing and reinforce the sense of domination around them, and their legitimacy.

The Death Eaters of the inner circle, on the other hand, wore sumptuous robes, often in the colors of their houses, or spangled with serpentine motifs in homage to their master. Bellatrix was particularly beautiful that evening, the traces of Azkaban almost erased from her face, her lips painted a dark red, her hair assembled over her head - as she did when she was still studying. She had refused to wear any other uniform than her comrades, and had merely added a broad band which encircled her shirt and highlighted her shapes, and had added her famous daggers to her belt, presenting herself as protector of her master. She looked dark and fierce, just as he liked her.

Voldemort did not need a protector, of course, but he let her do it. This proved her unwavering loyalty, and could give a good impression to his guests, a discreet reminder that his murderous strength surpassed his own person.

The women who were only there to accompany, and who were not themselves part of the Death Eaters, wore dresses that rivaled each other.

So when the ambassador and his escort entered, the room resembled a brightly colored frieze, where the silky fabrics were cut out on the black and auster clothes, where the feathers, jewels, and ornaments pearls contrasted with the claws, daggers and official rings, offering the most beautiful apperception of the reign of Lord Voldemort.

Narcissa, as the organizer and minister's wife, had allowed herself to divert her outfit in a different way than her sister. She had wrapped her coat up to give it the appearance of a cloak that accompanied beautifully all her movements when she smiled falsely, but with talent, to such or such employee whose cooperation facilitated the power of her husband, and thus , in the shadow, hers. If Voldemort had not seen the murderous force of the young woman on the battlefield, he might almost have believed that she was only a worldly woman among all those who inhabited the ministry, although much more distinguished than Rita Skeeter, for example, who was standing in a corner of the room, wearing something unidentifiable, but undeniably aggressive, and taking notes to write an article which was, he did not doubt all to his advantage. Or would be her last.

Overall, he was satisfied with the result. All this served his interests, even if he disliked this kind of event. He allowed himself a half-smile when the younger Malfoy went down the stairs of honor, with the young Miss Parkingson on his arm, whom he would probably marry soon, in order to give the Malfoy family a new heir before be sent to die on any battlefield for his incompetence. Voldemort even felt kind enough to allow him to live the time of procreating several heirs, after all, his physique was endearing and his qualities as a wizard not negligible, just like his blood and fortune. It would give children waters that would soon be effective and loyal servants, especially under the prescription of the failure of their father - and their grandfather to some extent.

Voldemort sincerely regretted that there was no other black than this young man - he would have to speak to Bellatrix quickly. Maybe even Narcissa could give new shoots, after all, she was a Black as well as her sister, although the fury of her family was slightly erased in her character. He recalled with amused nostalgia the brilliant blows of Walburga; but the poor woman had given the world only a traitor and an idiot.

Stifled conversations mingled with light and false laughs, so false, in the ambient music, played by instruments enchanted to accompany the ambiance of the room. Yes, Lucius was an expert of these things nothing more soothing than the Mozart for the arrival of their guests, joyful and light. Then, when Voldemort makes his appearance ... something else, clearly. Voldemort was not the kind of person to enter the air of a major sonata.

But it was planned, of course.

He watched the ambassador go down the stairs, his back stiff, as Nero watched the Christians descend into the false lions. the ambassador was young enough, for his post, probably a desire of the German Minister to show that his people were a new people, cut off from their past with a barrier as impenetrable as the secret around magic, but also effective, proud and energetic. Be that as it may, he had simply adorned himself, showing that he was neither part of nor approved of the pomp of the nobility-what, in fact, was the English bourgeoisie.

His eyes sought for a moment the most important guest of the evening, in a way that would have been discreet or invisible to anyone other than Voldemort, but he found it very interesting. Then he decided to go and greet Lucius and his wife, kissing the latter's hand with a lacerated gesture - a man to wife, or a very good socialite, then - before presenting his little troupe, composed of a the man who made it easily was more than he centimeters, but whose fine form gave the impression that he was only a branch, or had undergone some deformation, and large blue eyes inexpressive, and a quarantine woman , and professional, but not devoid of a certain charm. The Malefoys greeted them as is customary before introducing them to important spheres, avoiding even to look at those who were, so to speak, at the bottom of the food chain.

The game had begun.

Everything would be fine.

"It's a bit cold, don't you think?"

 _Shit_ , he had forgot Potter.


End file.
